


Strange New Girls

by Froggimus_Rex



Category: Star Trek: Discovery, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/F, Pon Farr, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-28 21:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15715359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggimus_Rex/pseuds/Froggimus_Rex
Summary: Trying to explain Starfleet's guiding principles had been a mistake, Michael's tenuous grip on her self-control faltering when Ahsoka asked if they greeted all new life this way.On the edges of the Federation, Michael finds herself involved in an...unusual first contact situation.





	Strange New Girls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/gifts).



Despite being situated in what might be called the armpit of the galaxy if you were feeling kind (and worse if you weren't), a handful of the venues on Border Station Mu VII that existed to eke credits from the pockets of bored passers-through made a valiant if futile attempt at respectability. This bar was not of them.

The lights were dim, possibly by design to hide the scuffs, the stains, the low quality furniture, but a random, intermittent flickering suggested inadequate power or damaged fixtures were just as likely to blame. The recycled air, already far from fresh, hung thick and hot and humid, loud beyond comfort with the riot noise of happy drunks, angry drunks, and those that could of been either, stifling and redolent with the odour of a dozen different species, of sweat, of spilled drinks, spilled blood and other bodily fluids. In all, not the kind of place a person would reasonably expect to find a Starfleet officer in good standing. Or any Starfleet personnel of any rank in any standing.

Which was exactly why Michael was sitting in a corner booth, back to the wall, unmoving but for the absent drumming of her fingers by her untouched drink on the table as she watched the clientele like a hawk. Though given her current state of mind, perhaps 'like a hungry sehlat' would've been the more appropriate simile.

After the bombing at the learning center, Michael hadn't even been out of the biobed before Sarek, with all the bluntness expected of a Vulcan parent, had explained the details of her (technical, temporary) death, and the bond created between them by the meld and the transfer of his _katra_ , and also that given the relative lack of precedence for mind-melds between Humans and Vulcans in those specific circumstances, there was little way to anticipate any side-effects that were not already apparent.

If there had been, perhaps Sarek would not have been so woefully unprepared when one such side effect had hit with vengeance at the onset of puberty. Though on balance that had most likely always been destined to be one of the most mortifying, stilted, and awkward conversations of both their lives. One only ended by Amanda’s blunt intervention (fuelled by a combination of frustration and pity), and followed by a battery of equally mortifying tests conducted by equally mortified members of the Vulcan Science Academy (Spock's usual attempts at stoicism had collapsed into an entirely un-Vulcan-like glee at not being the subject of their attentions for a change).

The upshot of that intensely embarrassing period of Michael's adolescence was a conclusion that despite initial concerns, she was not actually undergoing _pon farr_. This came as as a mixed relief, as while it mitigated the risk of death during the false _plak tow_ (merely leaving her wishing for the sweet release of death, little or otherwise) and removed the need for a bonded mate, this pseudo farr lacked the relative regularity of a true _pon farr_. Despite this lack of predictability, and the disconcerting realisation that the one thing she could say for certain about her cycles were that they were shorter, over time Michael had learnt to recognise the signs of an approaching false farr and through a (still mortifying) system of trial and error, the efficacy and practically of various methods of dealing with the problem.

So it had caused her no small amount of concern when she'd realised she was displaying symptoms of an acute onset earlier that morning. Not least because the symptom in question was responding to Tilly's return to their quarters from her latest conquest with a sudden, irrational desire to put said conquest, the utterly inoffensive Crewman Gutierrez from Hydroponics, through the nearest bulkhead.

That Discovery was currently out at the very fringes (or more accurately, the fringes of the fringes) of Federation space, limited her options. Severely. Her most favoured one, taking as many days as needed of her rarely used personal leave and meditating as deeply and as often as able until the _plak tow_ passed was not feasible, not when the blood fever could linger for several weeks. Even if it were technically possible out here to acquire the specific cocktail of drugs that would function as a medical stopgap, doing so would raise questions that Michael, despite mostly lacking the cultural sense of (shame) reticence about the _pon farr_ , would not feel comfortable answering when it was merely her dignity at stake rather than her life. And even if it wouldn't have been unprofessional and potentially dangerous, attempting to do her duties and pretend nothing was happening and was simply not an option.

Which left what was both the simplest, fastest, most effective solution, and the one Michael preferred to avoid if at all possible, not when it involved people she'd have to look in the eye after, giving in to the base instinct at the heart of it all.

The sliver of good luck mixed in with all the bad was that they'd docked at here at Mu VII to refuel and take on supplies, and while it was far from being a Federation Starbase, Saru had deemed it safe enough for shore leave. If he'd been surprised or had questions about her requesting it, he'd chosen not to voice either.

Which had led her here, to this grimy pit of a bar, deep in the bowels of the station, looking for (as Tilly might put it in the extremely unlikely event Michael ever told her about her condition) a fuck or a fight. She let her gaze wander the room, body wound tight, fingers still beating that restless, random tattoo. Given her options, it was likely to be the latter.

It wasn't the alien's looks that first drew her eye, though they were striking, and would've been even if Michael were in her own state of mind. An unfamiliar species, but humanoid, almost definitely mammalian, almost definitely female, Michael breathed deeply and forced herself to continue, tall, and seeming taller still thanks to a gracefully curved crest that split into horns. A trio of fleshy appendages hung from her head, one at the back, longer and thicker, and two draping forwards over her shoulders and...Michael attempted to focus again. Orange and blue skin marked with white, and Michael's fingers itched as she wondered if the pigmentation of natural or artificial.

But, no, physically fascinating as the woman was, especially now, it was her stillness that caught Michael's attention. In a bar divided between sloppy drunks, and those watching their fellows with barely concealed tension, Michael very much included, she was an oasis of tranquillity and calm, a completely incongruous outlier. And much like nature abhorring a vacuum, it was a state of affairs that did not seem destined to last.

Michael's focus was too narrowed to notice how (or why) the fight started, but once it reached the woman, she couldn't have noticed anything else. In the space of a heartbeat, that stillness went to flowing motion, not a movement wasted as she twisted out of the path of one punch, used the momentum of another to send her attacker flying, and the fire in Michael's blood, tamped down to smouldering embers roared back into full blaze. She wasn't aware of getting to her feet, or of crossing the room. She _was_ aware of the feel of her hand clamping on a Nausicaan's shoulder, the clattering sound of a knife hitting the floor followed by the muffled one of dead weight, of blue eyes and a bright grin, and Michael's own mouth curling in response as the ebb and flow of violence rose around them once more.

She was aware of a hand curling around hers, a voice telling her it was time to go, the stale station air burning in her lungs as she ran. She was _intensely_ aware of pushing a body back against the prefab bulkhead, sliding her knee between muscular legs, heat against her thigh, and pressing up, up against the other woman's mouth. Of teeth catching against her lips, of a growl rumbling against her chest, and then hands, strong hands coming to her shoulder and not pushing, not shoving her back, just holding her there, still and firm.

Michael breathed in, trying to catch her thoughts like wisps of clouds, smother the burning in her veins, to little success, but enough. Just barely enough. She opened her mouth to say something, apologise, but the other woman beat her to it. "My ship's docked nearby," she said, the calmness in her voice belied by the look in her eyes. Her lips curved into the same bright grin from the bar. "And I hear introductions are polite."

No longer mindless, but still deep in the grip of the _plak tow_ , Michael wasn't entirely sure how they'd manage an actual conversation between there and the airlock, but somehow they did, even if some of the answers (and even the questions) she got left her more confused than before. Ahsoka was, in her own words, far, far away from home, and while familiar with Humans, had never heard of Earth or the Federation. Trying to explain Starfleet's guiding principles had been a mistake, Michael's tenuous grip on her self-control faltering when Ahsoka asked if they greeted all new life this way.

Michael mightn't have been to appreciate it fully as she might have otherwise, but the sight of Ahsoka's ship though the viewport was still breathtaking, her lines beautiful and unfamiliar, the interior murals enough to at least momentarily distract Michael from Ahsoka herself.

“Your work?” she asked, tracing a line of paint with a fingertip.

“A friend,” came the reply, Ahsoka’s tone fond and accompanied by the sound of fingers tapping against a console. “Who's apparently already found alternative arrangements for tonight.”

Michael’s fingertip traced over a stylised version of Ahsoka’s...what term had she used again?...montrals. “They’re very good.”

“Yes.” Ahsoka’s hand covered hers before raising it to one of the real ones. Michael kept her touch light as her fingers ran over velvet-soft skin, outlining the jagged blue and white chevrons. Her hands followed the pattern downwards, the underlying hardness of bone turning to firm but yielding flesh where montral became lek. She heard Ahsoka’s breath catch, and watched, fascinated, as already dark blue flushed almost navy. She raised her gaze to meet Ahsoka's, seeing something dark and hungry reflected back at her. Then slowly, deliberately, heartbeat thrumming wildly in her ears, she smoothed her palms along the length of Ahsoka's front pair of lekku, letting her nails scrape lightly over her skin.

Then Michael found herself the one pinned against a bulkhead, Ahsoka hoisting her up, hands gripping her ass, pulling their hips flush, grinding. She bit at Ahsoka’s lip, whatever shreds of restraint she had left snapping like thread as she stopped resisting the pull of the _plak tow_ giving in to a heady rush of base instincts. The friction of her trouser seam pressing against her with every movement of their hips drew hissing, gasping breaths from her, was what she needed, but it wasn't enough, not nearly, and heedless of all else, she canted her hips until she could fumble the fastener open, slip her hand into her underwear. She worked her fingers urgently between her legs, rough and careless, still not quite enough, not until another touch joined hers, just where she needed it, and she came apart, Ahsoka’s hands braced under under her thighs the only thing keeping her up.

She leaned back against the bulkhead, legs trembling as Ahsoka lowered her down, hands smoothing up her back. It took her several moments to realise she was asking her a question.

In response, she pushed off the bulkhead, using her momentum to spin Ahsoka around, flip their positions. A growl deep in her throat, she pressed up against her in another desperate, bruising kiss, before dropping to her knees in one smooth motion. She wasn't done, she was just beginning.


End file.
